


Nothing In the World So Well As You

by airspaniel



Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Murder, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-15
Updated: 2008-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Those nights, when the only weapons she has are her words and her mind and her hands, and none of them are strong enough to resist him."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing In the World So Well As You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic, or something like it, has been in my head for two years now. I don't know why it picked today to let me finally write it, but I am quite pleased with the way it turned out.

She doesn't know where the bodies go; who takes them away in the dark of night, dragging the bloodied corpses across her carpet and out her door.

She doesn't lose sleep over it. In fact, those are the nights she sleeps most soundly; lazily spread-eagled on the sheets, covering the wide bed in a sideways sprawl and falling into slumber without the least thought of New Caprica and the life that she is living.

If you can call this living.

She doesn't. Doesn't do anything but watch and wait. Wait for the next weapon, the next opportunity to present itself. Waits to leap on the chance, bathing away her troubles in a hot, wet spray of blood, a flood of blessings and curses falling from his lips as he sinks down into death, down onto the floor in the quarters they share.

She learned after the first few times, it's too much trouble to clean the furniture. Better to lure him into the open. The kitchen if she can, slick linoleum washing clean of her sins; the dining room if no other option presents itself.

Once in the bathroom, but he's far too clever to slip like that twice, and he no longer trusts her in the smallest of things, even as he whispers his praise and endearments into her affection-starved ears.

There are other nights, though; nights that don't end in bloodshed, when he retires to the bedroom, making his usual half-hearted plea for her to join him. Without fail, her response is "go frak yourself," or "frak you," and he merely shakes his head and smiles and leaves the room, as if he's party to some infinitely amusing cosmic joke, and the punchline is Kara Thrace.

Those nights, when the only weapons she has are her words and her mind and her hands, and none of them are strong enough to resist him. Enough to fight the slow, sweet stirring in her blood when he looks at her, looks so deep he's looking through her, and asks her just one question.

"What do you want, Kara?"

Tonight is no exception; she has no answer, no words other than the silent plea of her fingers at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head so she can touch his pale skin. He just laughs, always laughs, and lets her do it; lets her bare his skin and explore, as if every touch were new to her and terrible.

His hands close on her hips and she shudders, eyes falling shut to preserve an image? Block it out? Does she even know? But his fingers steal under the soft fabric of her tank top and she doesn't resist as he moves it upward, moves it off, and she doesn't fight at all.

"Say it, Kara," he whispers, mouth twisted in something that might have been a smile, twenty or thirty bodies ago. "You know what I want to hear."

"I love you," she sighs, and means it, and his hands come up and close over her breasts, stroking gentle circles over her nipples with his thumbs; rewarding her for her good behavior. Kara moans softly and arches into the touch, hungry for whatever he deigns to give her.

"Who?" he asks, grinning widely, and the expression almost makes her nauseous; but his hands touch her so lovingly, so _right_ , and it would be wrong to deny him this. Wrong to deny him anything

"Leoben," she breathes, and immediately he's unfastening her pants, tugging the tight cloth down over her hips and she shifts to accommodate the movement, wanting to give him anything, everything, whatever he wants.

Once she is naked, he lays her back on the pillows and just looks at her; from her silver-gold hair to the slightly callused tips of her toes, he looks at her as if he's memorizing a fine piece of art. Something beautiful that is by its very nature ephemeral. That is doomed to be destroyed.

"Please, Leoben," she begs, writhing against the sheets, and though she'll think of this later and wish she hadn't been so weak, in the moment there's nothing else she can do. His touch is essential, like water, like her heartbeat, and when he lays his hands on her and proclaims her destiny, she is helpless to do anything but submit.

Those hands, those hands she loves and hates, all clever fingers and sleight-of-hand, slide from her breasts to her waist, a slow V that leaves her nerves on fire. As they pass her navel, they separate; one wandering back up, caressing her face with love and wonder, while the other... The other snakes down, teasing the slickness between her legs, spreading it up and around her clit with quick, deft movements that leave her breathless, gasping, bucking into his hand wanting harder and faster and more.

And always, _always_ he pulls away. Pulls away just as she's aching and desperate for him; for just a little more to push her up and over and...

"What do you want, Kara?" he repeats, and it might not be her imagination, the way he's breathless now.

"Oh gods, your hands," she pants, because she does, his long fingers pressing inside her, thrusting, just right against that place that makes her moan and writhe. "Your mouth," she shudders and twists, and he obliges, lowering his head and driving her mad with lips and teeth and too, too tricky tongue, while his fingers still move deeply inside her. She cries out, clenching around him, but he doesn't let her go, keeps pushing her harder and faster until she's all but sobbing, hips still twitching weakly into his hands.

"What do you want, Kara?" he purrs, sliding up her body like a predator; like some great jungle cat who has already caught his prey and is simply debating the best way to go in for the kill. "Tell me."

His breath is hot against Kara's throat and she catches herself arching into it, catches the movement but cant stop it, even though she hates herself so much for giving in. But it isn't her fault and she can't help herself, and godsdamnit she wants _more_.

"You, Leoben," she lifts his chin so he can meet her eyes; can see every scrap of defiance and loathing she can muster even as she surrenders. "Gods, I want to feel you..."

"As you wish," he says, laughing softly and smoothing his hands up the backs of her thighs, drawing her legs up against his chest as he presses in. She can feel every inch, every shiver that runs through his frame through the haze of her own arousal and need; and it drives the very breath from her body. Her mouth is open, a rush of sounds that are sometimes words, occasionally pleas but far more often curses, and every so often a syllable that nearly resolves into his name. He smiles at these, as if he knows what had been coming, and rolls his hips harder, pushing her to the very brink of her control.

He wins, he always wins, and she chokes off a scream; throwing her head back against the pillows and coming hard, clutching his shoulders in a grip that would have left bruises on a normal man.

He's never far behind, though, holding her close as he shakes apart, lips parted in a completely silent cry of triumph and ecstasy.

"Tell me, Kara," he hisses, just after, as he eases out; rolls to the side, and she follows.

"I love you," she says, only a little shaky. Her hands come up to frame his face, devoted and disbelieving all at once.

"I love you," she sighs. "And I wish you were dead."

Leoben just laughs; always laughs, a low and wicked sound that echoes in the bedroom. He pulls her in close, cradling her head to his chest, and he strokes her hair so gently.

"Well, there's always tomorrow."

In the morning he's gone, as he's always gone. She doesn't know where those bodies go either.

But she does know when they come back, and Kara smiles and fondles the razor she managed to liberate in his absence.

Tonight there will be blood, and a dreamless sleep at the end.  



End file.
